


Faith for the Faithless

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Blasphemy, Dedication, Gen, Platonic Love, Post-Apocalypse, Religion, Religious Conflict, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, Talking, blood (mentioned), death (mentioned) - Freeform, death of a child (mentioned), everyone is dead and everything sucks, religious character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: Charlie Davis will probably be a Catholic until he dies. Lucien Blake's faith is much more earthly bound.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because this is what we needed, right? More post Apocalypse stuff? right??? I haven't written a proper Lucien story in forever, damn.

The house is never silent. Lucien finds himself annoyed by this more than anything else. He knows, logically, that he should be more annoyed by other, more important things that are occurring, such as having no pajamas, or that they wont have any food tomorrow, but none of that annoys him so much as it upsets him. It is the creaking foundations, crying winds and animal noises that are currently at the forefront of his mind.   
Since the war, which feels like a lifetime ago now, he hasn’t needed silence to sleep. Why would he, when he’s used to sleeping in what strictly qualifies as a Hell on Earth? But he hasn’t heard silence in over five years by this point and it beginning to grind on him. Next to him, Charlie sighed and tugged his pillow closer to his chest, similarly affected.   
“Can’t sleep?”  
“Hm.”   
Charlie rolled onto his back, keeping a tight hold on his pillow. It’s cold, coming into winter, according to Charlie, who since the beginning had kept a note pad keeping track of each day. Lucien would believe it. It’s chilly, so it’s better to share a bed, warmer, harder to freeze to death. Not that his justifications really matter. He has shared a bed with Charlie for as long as they’ve been travelling together. Seeking out creature comforts, like sharing a bed and the comfort of another person close by.   
He’d be a fool if he thought that he and Charlie were not heavily dependent on one another. Charlie needs him; and he needs Charlie. It’s not so cold out that they had to wear their clothes to bed, though there are many days a year like that. They’ve taken the opportunity to wash them, having them dry now, and sleeping in their underwear. He hadn’t wanted to, at first. Hadn’t wanted Charlie to see what had been done to him. When he eventually did Charlie hadn’t even blinked, hadn’t cared or even mentioned if he noticed. He had plenty of scars of his own these days.   
Lucien’s favourite is one that goes all the way up his chest, starting in the space between his sternum and navel, and ending at his clavicle. He stitched it up himself. At the time, he’d been so afraid Charlie was going to die, be it from blood loss, or from infection. But he hadn’t. He’d lived, and he kept on living. Charlie Davis was living proof, in a way, that there was still something good worth fighting for. Sometimes he wants to run his finger along it, just as proof, but that would likely not be welcome. He can understand that. He’d be disconcerted if Charlie started touching his scars as well.   
He can see them from here, just outside the window, within easy access if they have to leave in the night. He misses his three piece suit dearly, but he’d given up on it as something he could wear and also defend himself. His shirt is at least collared. His pants, now faded, hang over the line.   
Charlie’s police uniform was long since missing his blazer, he’d lost it before he’d even come across Lucien. Worse then that, he’d lost the leg off of the left side of his pants. Lucien hadn’t had a choice in the matter; it was the pants or Charlie, and after that, he’d lost the piece he removed desperate to get away. No matter. Like they always did, they came up with a solution for it. Starting at his ankle, they replied by winding a long bandage up Charlie’s leg to protect it until they could get him new pants. Which may be a while away, considering.   
The house is in the middle of the bush, something that was probably a farm in another life. The residents had long since vacated, leaving it empty for Charlie and Lucien. All their possessions fit into one room, all their supplies in the cellar. They’ve been here for three months without incident, but they both know they will have to move on sooner rather then later. As much as he liked having a home base, someplace he and Charlie could call their own, he liked being alive more. Way more. And he liked Charlie being alive. 

“Can I ask a question, about the war?” Charlie breaks him out of his thoughts, with something out of the blue and probably related to his own train of thoughts. He doesn’t think of the war as often as he used to. Mostly he thinks about what’s happening right in front of his eyes. It’s Just as bad. Every body a stab in the stomach. Every bullet a broken finger. It hurts just as much. He supposes that it’s meant to be better, since he’s not being held captive. But it doesn’t. He’s held captive by the situation as surely as he was by the Japanese. A bigger cage is still a cage.   
“Only if I can ask you something back.” He responds. Charlie is as stingy with the details as to his whereabouts for the year he was gone from Ballarat is as Lucien is when he talks about the war.   
“What was it like?”  
“The war?”  
“To want to live, so fucking bad.”  
“Pardon?” Charlie swears a lot more then he used to. Lucien considers that it’s because there’s no one to tell him not to anymore.   
“I know a bit, about being a prisoner of war. Not personally. I read about it. In a book. You must have wanted to live; to come out of something like that.” Lucien has to think about it. At the time, he had put a lot of thought into if it was worth it or not, but it wasn’t something that he’s thought of much since. He tries his best not to, in fact. His brain, for whatever reason, latches onto the fact that Charlie doesn’t say prisoner of war like three words, but one long one. That he’d read a book about it, even if he can’t fathom why.   
“I don’t know that I personally wanted to live.” He said, finally. “But I wanted my mates to live. I was a doctor. I could do that. I wanted to see my wife. My daughter.” If Charlie has thoughts on the statement, he doesn’t vocalize them. “I knew that I had to live, if that was going to happen. If someone needed me to stich someone up.” Charlie has no reply to that. Perhaps he was expecting a hero’s reply. Perhaps he was expecting nothing. Lucien isn’t, contrary to popular belief, a mind reader. “I think it’s a bit like that now. I mean, what am I going to do without you?” He means it in jest but it comes out sounding far more earnest then he’d intended. Charlie observes him from the bed.   
“I don’t know what I would do without you, either.”   
Then nothing. Charlie stops talking, which is not out of the ordinary, and they both lie in silence. Eventually, he has his own question.   
“Where were you, that year? What did you do?”  
“I was…In Melbourne. Visiting my mother.”  
“I know that. I saw you off at the station.”  
“I was at the library, with my youngest brother. David. Imagine having a name like that. David Davis.”  
“What happened?” He asked, again. He wants to know, has to know.   
“The end of the fucking world happened. Mum and my other brothers, they were already dead. I heard that there was help at the library. He ended up like all the kids, though. No matter what I did. He died.”  
“You stayed there for a year?”  
“I read the Bible. Cover to cover. Looking for answers.”  
“Did you find them?”  
“It’s my turn to ask a question now.” He said, looking up. His eyes reflect the light coming in from the window.   
“Alright.” He concedes. 

“Do you believe in God, Lucien?”  
“I used to. Now, I don’t know. I haven’t known for years. What about you?”  
“I do.” Charlie says, reminding Lucien again, that he was a Catholic, back in the day. He doesn’t know if that really means anything now.   
“Did you find your answers?”   
“I did.”  
“What did you find?”   
“God has sent plagues before. He wiped out the whole Earth to start again. Why would this one be any different? He’s going to wipe out the humans and try again, I presume. Some chosen someone is looking down on us heathens and heratics, thinking about how glad they are to not be us.” A pause. “I suppose I sound like an idiot. You must be thinking, this is it. Charlie’s lost the plot totally.”  
“No. I don’t think that at all. I’m glad that you have something to believe in.”  
“What do you believe in?” Lucien looks down again.   
Memory threatens to spill lose. Charlie has cold toes. Jean is crying distantly, in his mind. She’s gone now, too. She was killed by someone who raided the house. There was nothing he could have done, he knows this, but it has never helped. He’s not sure in what he believes anymore. Hasn’t since the war. God has taken early everything from him time and time again to the point where he’s not sure if he’s very, very unlucky and tragedy prone, or if he’d done something and God is targeting him specifically. His mind drifts to Charlie, bleeding out on the dirt, fingers slick trying to hold his chest together so Lucien could be a God damn doctor and fix him. He smiles slightly, and glances at Charlie, who has moved to sit upright, still holding his pillow in his arms. He’s studying outside the window, as if there is something there. Lucien turns to follow his gaze. A Kangaroo hops through the outside trees and off into the bush. Charlie smiles, not a dark, cynical little thing, a small, real smile. And it’s one of the most beautiful things Lucien has ever seen. 

“I believe in you.”  
“Pardon?”  
“You’re here. Real and solid. You have convictions of your own. And you can work a gun.” Long pause. “I believe that we’re in this together. I believe that you walked through hot coals to come back to me. You endured loss, pain, fear. But you’re still here. And you’re going to keep on being here. I believe in that. I truly do.”   
“God can kiss my ass. I’m not going anywhere until you do.” He said, with fresh conviction. Lucien nods.   
“The sentiment is returned.” He assured Charlie, as he lay back down. He then welcomed Charlie into his arms. He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t pull away. He takes Lucien’s hand, and places it gently on his chest so Lucien can feel not only the bumpy scar tissue, but also his heartbeat.   
When Lucien falls asleep, he’s counted fifty beats.


End file.
